James Rollins - Innocent Blood

“Why would he contact me?”

He tilted his head to one side. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I hate him.” Jordan saw no point in lying. “He knows it.”

“Rhun is a difficult man to like,” Christian admitted, “but what did he do to make you hate him?”

“Besides almost killing Erin?”

Christian’s eyebrows drew down in concern. “I thought he saved her life… and yours.”

Jordan’s jaw tightened. He remembered Erin limp on the floor, her skin white, her hair soaked with blood.

“Rhun bit her,” Jordan explained harshly. “He drained her and left her to die in the tunnels under Rome. If Brother Leopold and I hadn’t come upon her when we did, she’d be dead.”

“Father Korza fed upon Erin?” Christian rocked back, surprise painted on his face. He scrutinized Jordan for several seconds without speaking, plainly floored by the revelation of this sin. “Are you certain? Perhaps—”

“They both admitted it. Erin and Rhun.” Jordan folded his arms. “I’m not the one lying here.”

Christian raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doubt you. It’s just that this is… unusual.”

“Not for Rhun it’s not.” He put his hands on his knees. “Your golden boy has slipped before.”

“Only once. And Elizabeth Bathory was centuries ago.” Christian picked up the glass of brandy and studied it. “So you’re saying that Brother Leopold knew all about this?”

“He certainly did.”

Apparently Leopold must have covered for Rhun. Jordan felt disappointment, but not surprise. The Sanguinists stuck together.

“He fed on her…” Christian stared at the glass as if he might find the answer there. “That means Rhun is full of her blood.”

Jordan shuddered, disturbed by that thought.

“That changes everything. We must go to her. Now.” Christian leaned over and rapped on the partition to gain the driver’s attention. “Take us to the airport! At once!”

Instantly obeying, the driver accelerated the car, its bottom scraping when it crested a hill and headed out of the cemetery.

Christian glanced to Jordan. “We’ll part ways at the airport. You can get home from there on your own, correct?”

“I could,” he agreed. “But if Erin is involved in any of this, I’m going with you.”

Christian drew in a long breath and let it out. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in numbers. “I’m sure Cardinal Bernard gave you the whole speech last time about your life and soul being in danger if you involve yourself in our affairs?”

“He did.”

“Then let’s save time and pretend I gave it again.” Christian lifted the phone to his ear. “Right now I must charter a plane to California.”

“So you don’t object to me going with you?”

“You love Erin, and you want to protect her. Who am I to stand in the way of that?”

For a dead guy, Christian was turning out to be okay.

Still, as the limousine sped across the snow-swept city, Jordan’s anxiety grew sharper with every passing mile.

Erin was in danger.

Again.

And likely all because of the actions of Rhun Korza.

Maybe it would be better if that bastard stayed lost.

Cardinal Bernard rearranged the newspapers atop his polished desk, as if organizing them into neat lines might change the words they contained. Horrifying headlines screamed from the pages:

Serial Killer Loose in Rome

Gruesome Murderer Savages Young Women

Police Stunned by Brutality

Candlelight reflected off the bejeweled globe next to his desk. He turned the ancient sphere slowly, longing to be anywhere but here. He glanced at his antique books, his scrolls, his sword on the wall from the time of the Crusades — items he had collected during his centuries of service to the Church.

I have served long, but have I served well?

The smell of newspaper ink pulled his attention back to the pages. The details disturbed him further. Each woman had her throat sliced open, and her body drained of blood. They were all beautiful and young, with black hair and blue eyes. They came from every station in life, but they had all died in the oldest quarters of Rome, in the darkest hours between sunset and sunrise.

Twenty in all, according to the newspapers.

But Bernard had managed to conceal many more deaths. It amounted to a victim claimed nearly every day since the end of October.

He could not escape the timing.

The end of October.

The deaths had started just after the battle waged in the crypts below St. Peter’s Basilica, a fight for possession of the Blood Gospel. The Sanguinists had won that battle against the Belial, a joint force of humans and strigoi, led by an unknown leader who continued to plague his order.

Shortly after that battle, Father Rhun Korza had vanished.

Where was he? What had he done?

Bernard shied away from that thought.

He eyed the pile of newspapers. Had a rogue strigoi escaped that battle and hunted the streets of Rome, preying on these young girls? There had been so many beasts in the tunnels. One could have slipped through their net.

A part of him prayed that was true.

He dared not consider the alternative. That fear kept him waiting, indecisive, as more innocent girls died.

A hand tapped on the door. “Cardinal?”

He recognized the voice and the sluggish heartbeat that belonged to it.

“Come in, Father Ambrose.”

The human priest opened the wooden door with one hand, his other clasped in a loose fist. “I am sorry to disturb you.”

The assistant did not sound sorry. In fact, his voice rang with ill-disguised glee. While Ambrose clearly loved him and served the cardinal’s office diligently, there remained a petty streak in the man that found perverse enjoyment in the misfortunes of others.

Bernard stifled a sigh. “Yes?”

Ambrose entered the office. His plump body leaned forward like a hound on a scent. He glanced around the candlelit room, probably making certain that Bernard was alone. How Ambrose loved his secrets. But then again, maybe that was why the man so loved Bernard. After so many centuries, his own veins ran as much with secrets as with black blood.

Finally satisfied, his assistant bowed his head in deference. “Our people found this at the site of the most recent murder.”

Ambrose stepped to his desk and held out his arm. Slowly, he turned his hand over and uncurled his fingers.

In his palm rested a knife. Its curved blade resembled a tiger’s claw. The sharp hook bore a hole in one end, where a warrior could thread a finger through, allowing its wielder to whip the blade into a thousand deadly cuts. It was an ancient weapon called a karambit, one that traced its roots back centuries. And from the patina that burnished its surface, this particular blade was ancient — but this was no museum piece. It was plainly battle scarred and well used.

Bernard took it from Ambrose’s hand. The heat against his fingertips confirmed his worst fear. The blade was plated with silver, the weapon of a Sanguinist.

He pictured the faces of the murdered girls, of their throats sliced from ear to ear.

He closed his fingers over the burning silver.

Of all the holy order, only one Sanguinist carried such a weapon, the man who had vanished as the murders began.

Rhun Korza.

Astride her favorite horse, Erin cantered across meadows turned golden brown by the dry California winter. Responding to the slightest shift of her weight, the black gelding lengthened his stride.